


Of Orange Hoodies and Stained Glass Windows

by LaShaRa



Series: Snapshots [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), Supergirl( mentioned in passing), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Modeling, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:32:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9276179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaShaRa/pseuds/LaShaRa
Summary: There are little creases at the corners of his eyes, which are caught between blue and hazel, contrasting sharply with the warmth of the hoodie, and Mick cannot for the life of him be sure which colour they are, but although he doesn’t know that, he knows this man.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I solemnly swear that this fic was not meant to be this long. But then my love of binge-watching fashion shows even though I haven't the slightest idea what's going on carried over into my undying love of Coldwave and THEN THIS HAPPENED. Blame the photo. When it comes to this series, always blame the photo. Anyway. Enjoy! Here's to Coldwave!

Mick Rory hadn't been too fond of grocery stores in his previous life, and nine years in prison hasn’t improved their relationship any. They’re too small, too brightly-lit, too full of squawking toddlers and harried women who eye him as if he’s an escaped grizzly or some other dangerous predator as he stalks by, stuffing his cart with food. Usually he’d go around to one of the diners he used to do part-time shifts at and get himself a meal in exchange for helping out with the dinner rush. But they’re all in the middle of Central, and both this grocery store and the one safe house that hasn’t been torn down yet are way on the outskirts, just a few blocks from where the bus dropped him off. It’s his first day on the outside, dammit. He just wants a good meal with actual vegetables that he’d cooked himself and a good night’s sleep on the safehouse’s lopsided couch without having to wake up in the night and punch out whoever his cellmate was that week.

He just barely makes it to the checkout without incident, restrains himself from swiping a lighter – not that he doesn’t want to, but he’s not sure how rusty his sleight of hand is – and waits, trying to stop his hands from twitching. To pass the time until the woman in front of him unloads her cart already – seriously, who the fuck needs that many rolls of toilet paper – he glances at the magazine rack. It holds surprisingly more sophisticated stuff than the usual glossy-covered garbage – probably more expensive too. His eyes move from some serious-looking environmental journal to something about cultural events for the upcoming month – huh, who knew Central City had any – to a few pamphlets featuring Central’s newest power players. The last magazine on the second shelf is obscured by the beaming face of some girl called Iris West, apparently the highest-ranked female journalist in the city. The section of the cover that he can see is a bright, flaming orange. Toilet Paper Woman is now arguing with the cashier over why they don’t stock some brand or the other. Out of sheer idle curiosity, Mick reaches out and pulls the magazine into view. 

He forgets about Toilet Paper Woman, about the grocery store, about the hunger growling in his stomach and the ache gnawing at his bones. He grips the cart with his free hand because his knees are threatening to buckle and he stares, and everything else falls away from him.

The orange belongs to a hoodie, made out of some thick, soft-looking, braided material. The man wearing it has pulled up the edge of the hood with long slender hands until it reaches the bridge of his nose. His wiry hair is short, flecked with gray, and forms a little dip high on his forehead. There are little creases at the corners of his eyes, which are caught between blue and hazel, contrasting sharply with the warmth of the hoodie, and Mick cannot for the life of him be sure which colour they are, but although he doesn’t know that, he knows this man. He knows that piercing, grilling, I-can-see-your-soul look. The slender, silver-white ring on his third finger is a new addition and it sends a little spasm of panic and pain through Mick’s gut, but then he looks at the ring the man is wearing on his left pinky, at its grooves and its dark, metallic sheen, and the way it’s just a little too big, and he can’t even begin to process the emotions which that sight sends through him.

Mick realizes all at once that Toilet Paper Woman is gone and the cashier is glaring at him. Half-dizzy, he puts the magazine on the counter and proceeds to unload the rest of the cart. “There’s not enough here to cover all this,” she snaps after ringing up his stuff and counting the crumpled bills he’d dropped on the counter. Not currently having the concentration necessary to growl back at her, he leaves two packs of beer behind and walks the few blocks to the safehouse. He lets himself in, checks that everything’s in order and locks up behind him first, because habits that are beaten in to you by virtue of endless pouting do not change, and then he pulls out the magazine and goes to sit on the couch, holding it with both hands like it’s going to make a break for it.

The magazine itself is some almost-high-society-but-pretending-not-to-be-because-that’s-frowned-upon thing, covering a bit of everything – fashion, art, music, food, features, and so on and so on. Mick takes his time finding the right page and pretends it’s because he doesn’t want to ruin the magazine he just gave up two packs of beer for. What he wants is right in the middle of it and takes up ten pages. The title and description have a lot of fancy words which Mick decodes to mean “expensive” and “just above the line of affordable” and then abandons in favour of the black and white photograph on the facing page. It’s been taken from below, a headshot of him against the sky. He’s wearing some kind of hoodie/scarf in striped patterns, tucked into an artfully creased jacket over a white T-shirt. He’s looking off into the distance at an angle, and Mick traces the sculpted jut of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the creases around his mouth that he gets when he’s trying to make the best of something.

Oh, Lenny.

-

He doesn’t manage to track him down. This is mostly because Leonard Snart is apparently now the male equivalent of Mick’s favourite female supermodel, Adriana Lima. His face, of course, is everywhere; apart from that reporter Iris West, Len seems to be the only Central City citizen in several decades to have become internationally recognized for non-scandalous, non-political, non-criminal reasons, and the city is making no secret of the fact. The more of Central Mick reacquaints himself with, the more he sees of Len. He’s on billboards, in shop windows, on magazine covers, on television commercials for everything from sportswear to guyliner to toothpaste…he’s a fucking legend. Not bad for someone whose main identifying feature used to be two black eyes and/or a lip that looked like mincemeat . 

But despite the fact that Mick can’t walk down the street to get a doughnut without spotting Len’s face at least twice, he just can’t seem to find him in the flesh. Mick’s still got some cash squirrelled away here and there and he gets himself a phone and loads every gossip and social media network he can figure out how to use onto it, he flicks through tabloids, he hangs around outside events which Len’s rumoured to be attending (he even gets photographed from time to time by some weirdos all in black) , he talks to all the contacts he still has who aren’t murderers and stalkers with weird fetishes/in jail/dead, which leaves not a lot of people, and he still can’t find Lenny. Mick entertains the idea of getting in touch with him through his modeling agency, possibly by employing some serious bribery and corruption and/or threatening to burn down the warehouses where they store their new collections, but then it turns out that Lenny isn’t signed with an agency. Amazingly, Lenny’s managed to make it as a ‘freelance’ model; according to some tabloid Mick comes across on a train, he’s been his own manager since he started out modeling eight years ago. He never did like dancing to someone else’s tune and he’s managed to control exactly who has access to him. 

Good to know some things don’t change.

Two months go by and Mick’s starting to get a little desperate. It’s not like finding Lenny’s the only thing he’s got to do; he needs to get and keep a non-shitty job, he needs to avoid his old contacts when they come asking why he’s not interested into running with them again, he needs to not set any fires. Any more fires, anyway. Every time he comes back to the safehouse after working construction or carting somebody’s ancient motheaten tablecloths around town or standing for hours in the pouring rain outside some gala avoiding the guys who can’t stop photographing him, the itch in his hands gets a little harder to ignore, and he has to go crack open the safe and spend the night looking through its contents. He must have over a hundred magazines and tabloids and newspapers by now – he’s even visited the fucking library – and from them he tries to map out Len’s life in the years since he was sixteen and Mick was eighteen and they were stealing shit from prison guards to trade the other kids in exchange for matches (Mick) and spearmint gum (Len). He knows he’s become a fucking stalker but he can’t help it. He needs to know. The magazine interviews focus more or less on fashion and the modeling world, which Mick couldn’t care less about, and even the tabloids never manage to find anything remotely personal to report. 

Two months and all he knows about Len is that the only person he’s seen with on a semi-regular basis is Barry Allen, Iris West’s fiancé; that Lisa’s in Asia hunting down gems for some firm or the other; that their dad, Mick hopes whatever he has instead of a soul rots in hell, is dead; and that he’s unhappy. Mick must have looked at a thousand photographs before he finally notices this last fact. There’s a shadow in Len’s eyes, an ever present downward turn to the corners of his mouth, and he never, ever, models in short sleeves, let alone shirtless. Mick wonders what happened in those two years between Len getting out of juvie and signing his first contract. He’s beginning to think he’s never going to find out.

\- 

In the end, when he meets Len, he hasn’t even been trying. Actually, he hasn’t had time to try. He’s just begun his third job in six weeks, waiting tables and manning the grill at some shitty diner not too far from the safehouse, and he can’t afford to be ducking off every two days to lurk outside swanky hotels and see absolutely nothing. Shawna, the med student he met at the library, who also got him the job, grabs his sleeve as he dumps a load of plates by the sink, “Hey, Mick, can you take table seventeen? I’ve got my hands full right now.”

No shit, Mick thinks idly, eying the ten plates and ten glasses she’s somehow managing to sprint across the kitchen with. He takes out his notepad and stomps out to the diner. Table seventeen is at the back, right next to the bathroom – seeing as there are three other tables free, Mick doesn’t know why the hell the guy sitting there picked it – unless, of course, he’s a crook. The guy’s got on a black baseball cap, sunglasses, denims and a black jacket, face buried in a newspaper; all he’d have to do is toss it all in the dumpster outside the bathroom window and vanish. He could be on the run, no question about it.

Mick did learn this shit from the best, after all.

He walks up to the table. The guy doesn’t look up. That’s fine by Mick, he’s been on the run a few times himself. “You ready to order?” he grunts, like Shawna taught him, although she probably meant with more finesse than what Mick’s bothered to use right now.

The guy freezes up.

Okay, newbie, thinks Mick. First rule of being on the run, you do nothing unusual, and freezing when someone asks a question is not usual. Guy’s just lucky Mick’s too tired to be malicious today. “Sorry, I’ll give you a few more minutes, then,” he says, starting to walk off, and then the guy’s hand shoots out and grips his arm.

“Listen, buddy,” says Mick pleasantly, reaching for the guy’s hand, “I was gonna do you a favour and let you get out of this, but you’re gonna get out of it with a lot fewer fingers if you don’t - ”

He stops.

There’s a ring on one of the fingers he’s just grabbed. A ring he knows from the cover of a magazine he saw in a grocery store not far from here. A ring that a spindly sixteen year old stole off him right after the first time Mick saved his life and refused to give back. The ring only one person in the world is ever going to wear.

Lenny squeezes Mick’s arm, then tilts the brim of his cap at the bathroom. Mick’s a bit confused – sure, he’ll follow Len into the bathroom, he’ll follow Len into a goddamn sewer right now – but then he remembers the alley outside. He squeezes Lenny’s fingers and then he walks away without watching Lenny stand and move to the door, because standing in the middle of a shitty diner with his mouth hanging open is the opposite of avoiding unwanted attention.

In the kitchen he grabs Shawna’s arm. “Kid, I need you to cover for me.”

“Mick, no! I told you, I’m swamped today, and you can’t disappear now, in the middle of the lunch hour, the boss’s gonna fire you so hard - ”

“Don’t care. Somebody I gotta meet.”

Shawna looks at him. She’s smart, Shawna – you don’t ace all your classes while spending all your free time in a shitty diner to pay for them by being slow on the uptake. “This is who you’ve been looking for, yeah?” she states matter-of-factly. “All those tabloids you were reading at the library. I knew you weren’t the type to keep up with the Kardashians.”

Mick just nods.

“Good luck,” says Shawna, and then she’s gone, snatching Mick’s notebook out of his shirt pocket on the way. He’ll have to thank her later. For now he rips his apron over his head and then he’s almost running for the back door.

Lenny’s waiting at the top of the alley, and he turns away when he sees Mick and begins walking. Mick follows. They walk for almost an hour, heading deeper into Central, where the pavements are broader and lined with shops that don’t have bars on the inside of the windows; Mick ignores the stares he’s getting in favour of concentrating on not losing Len but not staying close enough to draw attention to him, marveling how tall he’s gotten, how those long legs o f his eat up the ground and steer him magically away from anyone who looks too interested in him. They’re on a wide, tree lined avenue with benches dotting the pavement and a few restaurants and low apartment blocks spaced a fair distance apart, and a dim memory is pinging away in the back of Mick’s mind, when Len ducks down another alley, makes one turn after another, and leads Mick onto a narrow dirt road line by what appear to be abandoned warehouses and factory parking lots. A few metres down is a long white wall topped with barbed wire, with a heavy steel door set into it, and Len goes up to this, unlocks a little box to reveal a keypad, and taps in an impressive amount of numbers at an even more impressive speed. The door swings open. A camera buzzes at Mick as Lenny waves it in, but he figures it has to be one of Len’s. Lenny shuts the door and walks down a passage lit by a dim panel in the wall. He fiddles with something and beckons Mick forward, his ring catching the light from the room beyond.

Mick walks into the room and registers space, white walls, and shiny things. A lot of shiny things, hell, some things really don’t change, except this time it’s trophies and slinky statues instead of penknives stolen from whichever budding serial killer had pissed Mick off that week. It’s when he looks up to see what’s causing the shimmering colours on the walls that everything falls into place.

They’re standing in the middle of Jedha. A budding thief should have neither a favourite safehouse, a safehouse named after something that can be used to identify them – such as a fictional planet apparently considered sacred by fanatics of a certain sky-fi show - or a giant unprotected access point in the roof of said safehouse. But once upon a time Len had all three. Jedha used to be a church before it was a safehouse and then the apparent hideout of a supermodel, but all that remains of its first life is the circular stained glass skylight. Scarlet and royal blue panes circle the edges of the window and then stream towards the centre like flames, meeting in the middle in a burst of amber and bronze and amethyst and turquoise. Mick’s lost count of the nights when he’d wake up to find Len sitting in the middle of the floor, which still had mosaic tiles back then, staring up into the kaleidoscope glow of some streetlight with huge, lost eyes, and Mick would have to sit down and pull Len into his arms so he wouldn’t ache all over the next morning. He knew better than to get him to come back to bed like a normal person, because his Lenny was never, ever normal. 

Mick walks slowly forward into the centre of the room. “Jedha. Of fucking course. Guess I shoulda known.”

He turns and suddenly Len’s right there behind him; he’s ditched the sunglasses and the cap and his eyes are wilder that Mick’s ever seen them and so, so blue. And then Len’s kissing him, clutching at the sides of his face so hard that his ring cuts into Mick’s cheekbone, and Mick kisses him right back, fisting his hands in Len’s short hair, because it’s been so damn long, it’s been ten fucking years, and Lenny tastes of coffee and yoghurt – yoghurt? – and desperation – 

Mick gasps and jerks back.

Len’s eyes shutter so fast that it terrifies Mick, terrifies Mick because he’s been a fool to believe that the face Len presented to the world told him even a fraction of whatever was really going on with him. “I’m sorry,” says Len, a charming smile falling over his face. “I didn’t mean to invade your space - ”

“Hey, no, don’t do that,” says Mick, reaching out to touch the side of Len’s face, only to have him flinch away. He forces down the wave of anger that surges up inside him at whoever made Lenny into this. One fucking problem at a time. “Lenny, please.” Len stops moving, seemingly at the use of the name that only Mick and Lisa have ever been allowed to call him. Mick holds up his hands. “You didn’t ‘invade’ anything, hell, I’d be the last to complain if you did, it’s just – I just need to see you for a minute.” His eyes roam over Len’s face, watching those blue eyes watch him. “God, Lenny, I haven’t seen you in so long.”

The sentence sounds ironic, but he really isn’t kidding. This close, in the clear, unfiltered light of Jedha, Len looks like shit. Beautiful beyond belief, sure, he was always that, but his skin is far duller than the skin of someone who jets off to do shoots in some tropical paradise every two weeks has any right to be. There’s a hunched, pinched look to his posture that wasn’t there when he was out on the street. He’s got bags under his eyes about the same size as the bruises he used to carry there and his eyes themselves – God, Mick can’t even begin to sift through all the sadness and the hurt and the loneliness that’s leaking through in spite of Len’s best efforts. “Shit, Len, what the hell happened?”

To his horror, Len’s face crumples. “I tried, Mick,” he says brokenly. “I tried so hard for years to make something better of myself like you asked, and this was it, and I know I should have been there when you got out, but I just couldn’t get away, and then I didn’t know if it was too late - ”

“Hold on!” says Mick. What the actual fuck? “Len, what are you talking about? I didn’t mean that, you’re a fucking superstar, of course you couldn’t come, I’m talking about you, why you look like you haven’t slept nor eaten in a hundred years, why you just backed off from me like you don’t know that you own everything I am!”

Len is staring at him. Mick realizes his shouts are echoing around the room. “Sorry,” he says shamefacedly. “Didn’t mean to shout. Just – what happened, Lenny?”

Len scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know, Mick.” He sounds suddenly exhausted. “Can we – can we talk about something else? Just for a bit?”

“Sure, Lenny,” says Mick, although it kills him to watch him like this and not understand why. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“I didn’t – I wasn’t looking,” says Len, moving to a thick rug lying on the floor a few feet away and sinking down on it. “I mean, I knew you’d been coming to my galas, but I couldn’t talk to you there, and I didn’t know where you were holed up. The diner was just one of the places I go when I need to get the hell away from all this for a bit.”

“You knew I’d been trying to find you?” asks Mick.

Len nods to a low coffee table. Mick goes over to it. Spread out on the glossy surface are photographs, maps, notes. In every one of the photographs is himself, scowling at the  
camera from under a rain jacket or walking away with his shoulders up or staring intently at some well-lit building in the distance. “The weirdos in black,” he realizes. “Those were your guys?”

Len makes a face. “In a manner of speaking. I made out that I wanted a list of all the people who repeatedly visited my venues but couldn’t get in, spawned some bullshit of wanting to find out who my true fans were. But I couldn’t get more than the photos and I couldn’t get out and find you myself. I didn’t want them getting close to you.”

Mick would argue – he knows, he’s known since they first met how resourceful Len is – but there’s something broken in the way Len says he couldn’t find him that stops him. Len means it. Len is genuinely trapped by something and Mick is sure as hell going to find out what or who and fry it or them to a crisp.

He sits down gingerly on the rug across from Len. “Hell of a long way from trading Playboys for spearmint gum,” he says carefully.

That raises a tiny smile from Len. “When did you find out?”

“First day on the outside. Saw a magazine cover. You were wearing some orange hoodie thing – and two rings.”

Len glances down at his hand. “The other one was just for the shoot. They didn’t want to offend the readers or something. You’d be surprised at the details that matter in this industry.”

Mick grunts to hide the tidal wave of relief that swamps him. “Fucking high-society bullshit.”

Another tiny smile. “You really haven’t changed, Mick.”

“Well, neither’r’ve you,” counters Mick hotly. “D’you know how many fucking tabloids I had to read to figure out that Lisa’s actually got a job that pays her to collect jewels? I can tell you exactly what style of thong the Kardashians were seen wearing every month of last year – with the brand names. The librarians were starting to talk to me about red carpet outfit predictions!”

Len’s grinning so hard that Mick’s a little blinded. Those toothpaste ads weren’t lying. “You went to a library, Mick?”

“Shut up.”

The grin softens to a smile. “Lisa’s great, really,” he says. “She’s loving Asia, says she might settle down there. I can see it, you know? Sun and sand and curries hot enough to set unsuspecting swains’ tonsils on fire – she’ll be in paradise.”

“What about you?” asks Mick, even though he kicks himself for it. “Don’t you fancy settling down in – where was it you shot your latest campaign? Honolulu?”

Len looks at him. “Fire was always more your thing, Mick.”

There’s a silence then, and they look at each other. Mick looks at Len, takes in the fact that he’s finally here, not beaming down at him from some billboard, untouchable, and holds out his arms. Lenny crawls across the carpet and settles himself against Mick’s chest. Mick tucks his chin over Lenny’s cropped head and feels Lenny’s chest heaves through his jacket. “Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay?”

“Sure, Lenny,” says Mick. He pressed his lips to the top of Len’s head. “Sure, I’ll stay.”

Len heaves a huge, shuddering sigh and goes quiet. Mick holds him a little tighter and stares at the light changing colour along the walls of Jedha. 

-

Over the next few days Mick discovers that his assumption about Len not having changed was not entirely true. For instance: he would never have imagined that there could be anything worse than how the Len of their juvie days had basic three sources of sustenance – mac and cheese, ramen, and pizza. But apparently there is. Len’s diet – if you can even call it that – consists of non-fat yoghurt, berries, kale, cheese, tofu, soya, and maybe an egg on weekends if he’s feeling indulgent. 

Ten years ago Len wouldn’t have known what kale was if it walked up to him and hit him in the face with a ten million dollar diamond necklace.

The one vice he allows himself is black coffee. The Saturday after they reunite, Mick brews a pot and laces it with honey, caramel, chocolate, cinnamon, and a hint of brandy, which sounds disgusting but Mick knows from experience that it's practically an aphrosidiac. Len follows the scent in three minutes later, looking a little dazed. He inhales an entire mug before he realizes that the plate Mick’s set in front of him contains, not a measly little serving of yoghurt and berries, but bacon, eggs, and hashed browns.

“Mick,” says Len wearily, even as his nose twitches. He pours himself another coffee and heads to the fridge. “You know I can’t eat - ”

“I went shopping,” Mick says cheerfully as Len yanks open the fridge and stops talking, staring at the newly stocked shelves like he can’t quite figure out what’s happening.“You need to stop pretending you’re a baby goat.”

“Mick, you don’t get it, I need to maintain a consistent intake of - ”

“Lenny, I get that if you don’t eat normal person food soon, you will die. So either you eat your goddamn hashbrowns without a fuss, or I force-feed them to you and I take away your coffee in the bargain. What’s it gonna be?”

Len glares at him for a bit. Then he sits back down and starts shoveling bacon into his mouth, keeping one hand on his coffee mug like he’s afraid Mick might actually confiscate it.

The adorable idiot.

Over the next week they set up something of a system.

Len wakes up in the middle of the night to work out and doesn’t go back to bed till four in the morning; when he staggers out two hours later, Mick’s wrapped everything in the gym, up to and including Len’s favourite blue exercise mat and the doorknob, in spearmint gum. Len spends half the morning torn between scrubbing weights with a toothbrush and asking Mick where the hell he got so much gum. 

Len gets calls and emails and text messages from agency representatives; Mick hides both his phone and his laptop and tells Len he shouldn’t have picked a place that Mick had lived in too if he didn’t want Mick using his hidey-holes.

Len tries to sneak out to go see the representatives in person; Mick lets him get five feet out the door, then pick him up and carries him back, cursing a blue streak, which isn’t hard considering Len weighs probably less than he did at sixteen, then threatens to release the footage from Len’s surveillance camera to the whole wide world. He has Instagram now, he’ll have Len know.

Len replies to that in language that Mick is overjoyed to find he hasn’t forgotten.

By the end of the week, there’s a little more colour in Len’s cheeks, a little more spring in his step, and he only wakes up about twice in a night. So when there’s suddenly a buzz from the front door – Mick had forgotten there was one – and Len goes white, Mick is halfway there with the rolling pin he was using on fondant icing when Len stops him. “It’s just Barry,” he says, going limp with relief as he checks the cameras. “He’s the only one who knows this address.”

Mick is surprised, but not displeased. The Allen kid seems harmless, and his hard-hitting reporter fiancée’s father is on the CCPD; two connections which would come in handy if he ever wasn’t around to protect Len. “I’ll be in the gym,” he says.

“You don’t want to meet him?” asks Len, turning away from the entrance to the hall.

“It’s more a question of whether you want him to meet me,” admits Mick. “I don’t exactly fit into the model scene, Lenny.” Which he’s completely and totally comfortable with. Len does inhabit a very different world now.

Lenny surprises him by striding across the floor and planting one on him. They haven’t exchanged much more than a few chaste kisses since that first one; Len seemed unsure of whether he could handle it, and Mick wasn’t going to push. “You’re still my partner”, says Len, tracing Mick’s face with his ring. “And Allen’s the only friend I’ve made in ten years. It’ll be fine.” He kisses Mick again and goes off to answer the door.

When Barry Allen bounces into the room, Mick’s still holding the rolling pin aloft. He’s excused. Lenny’s an excellent kisser.

“Mick Rory, Barry, Barry Allen, Mick,” says Len, his drawl hiding how much he’s worrying about what he’s just done. Barry provides a welcome distraction by sticking a hand out to Mick and blurting out, “You’re very attractive.”

Then he turns red to the roots of his hair and backtracks at the speed of light. “I mean! – the room! – is very attractive, love your new, um, cushion covers, Len, and wow, that arm – I mean, that rolling pin, is really fine, um, are you like, baking cookies or something, because I’d love to watch, I mean, help - ” 

Len is grinning fit to break his face. “Mick likes to bake,” he drawls. “He’ll join us once he’s put some cupcakes in the oven. Why don’t you come sit down, Bear, give me the gossip - ”

Barry launches into a stream of chatter, throwing sneaky glances at both Mick and Len, his face only slightly less red. Mick grins, and goes back to the kitchen. The cupcakes take a little while – carrying a tray back to the main room, he pauses to adjust his grip on the edge of the tray just in time to hear Barry ask, “Len, I’ve got to say – you’re kind of looking really good this week. I mean, not that you don’t look amazing other times, that Honolulu campaign was just wow, but – you look kind of – brighter somehow. What’s different?”

“I’m sure you’re imagining things, Bear.”

“No, seriously, you’ve got this glow, it would take me hours in makeup to get that. Is it a new diet? Please tell me you’ve finally given up kale, that stuff is disgusting – or have you cut back on the workouts? A thousand crunches a day, it was getting kind of extreme…”

Barry Allen is smart. Mick likes him.

“You’re a menace, Allen,” snarks Len, but Mick hears the smile in his voice. “But you’re not wrong.”

“I knew it!” bubbles Barry. “And also – I don’t know if this is over the line – but is it something to do with Mick? I mean – are you - ”

“Yes, Bear, we’re together,” says Len. There’s something Mick can’t quite identify in his voice.

“Wow. I’m so happy for you, Len. Like – when did this happen, though? You always say you’re too busy to meet anyone…”

“Mick’s not just anyone, Bear,” says Len quietly. “He’s – we’ve known each other a long time. He wasn’t around for some time, but – he’s back now. He’s pretty amazing.”

“That I am,” says Mick loudly, walking into the room like he’s heard only the tail end of the conversation. There’s something that worries him in Len’s tone. Barry starts to speak, but is distracted by the cupcakes. “Oh. My. God. You made these? Oh my god, now I know why Len looks so good, these are heaven – oh wow - ”

Barry leaves half an hour later, looking slightly high and carrying a bag full of cupcakes for his fiancee as well as Cisco and Caitlyn, his agents. Mick’s finishing up a last batch of cupcakes in the kitchen and putting them away – he’s going to see Shawna tomorrow and he wants to have something with him to try and distract her from the tongue-lashing she's going to give him for getting fired. When he comes back, Len’s sitting under the skylight. Mick wipes his hands on his jeans and goes to sit next to him. “Allen seems nice,” he says after a moment.

Len turns to him so fast that Mick nearly overbalances onto the floor, forgetting there’s no chair back behind him. “Mick, promise me you won’t leave,” says Len, his eyes suddenly blazing with tears. “Please, Mick. Promise.”

And then he breaks. Mick gathers him against his chest and rocks him back and forth, murmuring softly, and Lenny cries and cries and cries, his hands clenched in tight fists against Mick’s sweater. While he waits for Lenny to cry himself out, he reaches for his phone and sends a brief text to Barry. Len agreed to a shoot with Barry’s agents the next day. He’s not going to make it. Also, Shawna’s cupcakes will have to wait.

-

Mick curls himself around Len that night and listens to him talk. He tells Mick about the first few years, the struggle he had with himself when he figured out that this was probably his best shot at getting a clean break, the initial fight to make enough to cover his bills, the way he couldn’t always be selective about who he modeled for. There’s a reason Mick couldn’t find anything covering the first two years of Len’s career. He suspects Len’s dad had something to do with it, but Len won’t talk about Lewis. Instead he talks about the pressure that started to build up as he got more famous, the constant race to get signed and meet his obligations on time and learn the ropes of the fashion world and look perfect all the time, going up against models who’d grown up on the glitter of the runway rather than the gritty parade ground of juvie. How the competition kept getting younger, and how it was even worse when he became the leader of the pack, how every single day was a fight to keep something of himself private even as the world clamoured for more. Mick’s seen the scars on his back and his torso, of course, but now Len peels back the sleeves of his jumper and there are livid lines scored up and down his arms. Recreational cutting only, Len tells him, because a failed suicide attempt would have destroyed his career. He says it helped give him something real to hold onto, an immediate agony rather than a constant, throbbing ache. But the worst part, Len says, was the loneliness. He couldn’t let anyone in. Barry, for all that he’s a pretty popular model, albeit with serious punctuality issues, hadn’t even thought of entering the industry when Len was starting out. Until he came along, Len had no one. Just Lisa, who needed to go her own way, and Jedha, and that damn stained glass window.

Mick’s heart is going to pieces.

Once Len’s all talked out and fathoms deep in the dreamless sleep of the completely shattered, Mick goes out the back door. He walks half a mile in the freezing cold until he finds an abandoned parking lot and lights a fire inside an old oil drum. He sits on a pile of bricks and watches the flames and he cries for Len, grieves for his partner’s grief, and rages at the world that broke him. When the fire burns itself out, he walks back to Jedha, climbs in next to Lenny and holds him as tightly as he can without suffocating him.

The world broke Lenny, but Mick is the one who’s going to build him back up.

\- 

“You’re a jerk.”

“Yup.”

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re still not forgiven.”

“Okay.”

“You’re such a jerk!”

“You said that already.”

Shawna shakes her head. “Seriously, Mick. You have no idea how much I’m still mad at you.”

Mick shrugs. “Maybe, but you know, I did get you passes to only the biggest fashion show and also the first ever international fashion show Central City has ever seen,” he reminds her. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“Well, technically, your long-lost husband got me passes,” counters Shawna. Then she considers the number of well-dressed, well-muscled puppies in the arena and brightens. 

“But, you know, gift horses and all that.” She gives him a sudden hug. “I am really, really happy for you two,” she tells him. “But that does not mean I’m letting you off our payment plan.”

“Course not. There’ll be a fresh batch of cookies on your doorstep Monday morning.”

“Chocolate chip?”

“With caramel swirls.”

Shawna grins and then stalks across the arena towards an unsuspecting Ray Palmer, looking hopelessly lost in a crowd of Central City elite. Mick spares a moment to silently pray for him, then turns back to Cisco. “What time’s this show getting on the road?”

“T-minus fourteen minutes,” says Caitlyn from Cisco’s other side, although she’s wearing so many earpieces and gadgets and thingamajigs that Mick’s not sure she’s talking to him. Cisco groans and tugs her phone out of her hand. “Snow. Relax. They’re going to be fine.”

“I know, I know, but Barry’s never done a show this big, and Len - ”

“- is only the highest ranked male supermodel in the United States, if not the globe,” recites Cisco. “Caitlyn, Len can do this with his eyes shut, and he’ll look after Barry – who, by the way, has not done so much research for a show since Iris’s third grade dance recital. They’ll. Be. Fine.”

Mick sees his point but – well, he’s nervous too. This is the first show Len’s doing since he signed on with StarModels to work with Cisco and Caitlyn two months ago and they immediately advised him to take some time off. It’s also the first time Mick’s been in the room to watch him – and Mick doesn’t know what he’s more afraid of – whether Len will be able to handle it, or how Mick himself will react to Len being up on that runway.

The lights dim. The show begins. Mick sits quietly through the different segments and musical performances, admiring the lights and the colours rather than any individual form. Cisco is taking notes and making sketches at the speed of light beside him, while Caitlyn’s eyes are wide open and unblinking like she’s trying to capture mental snapshots of every single model and outfit – which, knowing Caitlyn, she probably is. A few seats down, Iris is scribbling in a notebook and taking the occasional photo; Joe West is glaring at the ceiling lights from next to her. He’s never been quite comfortable with Barry’s choice of career, although Doc Allen himself seems to have no issue with it, humming happily along to the music, and applauding when a few of Central City’s homegrown models, like the smirking Mardon brothers and Axel Walker, come into view.

There’s a short interlude, and then all the lights shut off. After a moment of darkness, a row of old-fashioned hanging lamps flare into life above the runway, leading all the way back to where a series of layered scarlet curtains are drawing back one after another. Music strikes up, something that sounds like Spanish to Mick, a little dark, a little mysterious, swelling here and there into impressive crescendos and fanfares. Caitlyn sits bolt upright, and even Cisco seems a little intense. Mick feels something tighten in his gut and his hands tingle. The tuxedo which Caitlyn picked out for him, although superbly cut and worth more than Mick’s ever made in his life, is not helping matters.

Barry is the first model out. Henry Allen and Iris are on their feet from the moment his boots hit the runway, as are Caitlyn, Cisco and Mick. Even Joe West can’t help applauding. It’s basically impossible not to; despite the heavy timbre of the music, Barry’s walk radiates happiness and excitement. In his short red cape, bejeweled boots and waistcoat, and dashing red cap crowned with dancing plumes, Barry is charming and accessible and absolutely press-worthy. He does a little flourishing twirl and bow at the end of the runway, and then flashes a toothy grin at the crowd, which promptly loses its shit. Mick isn’t judging. Barry knows exactly how to play to his strengths.

More models walk, and Mick fidgets, his nerves stretching to breaking point every time the curtains flare apart and his stomach sinking with disappointment when he realizes it isn’t Len. Len had told Mick nothing except that he’d be walking in the second to last segment of the show, saying he wanted it to be a surprise. Mick’s starting to worry, and he can see Caitlyn’s fingers itching towards her earpiece. Did something happen? Did Len have a panic attack? Had they come back too soon, should Mick have kept him away a little longer? Had he been a fool to believe Len when he told him he was okay, like the last time?

He’s so busy having a nervous breakdown that it takes him a moment to notice that Cisco’s suddenly gripping his arm, his eyes wide. Mick follows his gaze.

There’s a man walking down the runway.

But walking is an understatement if Mick’s ever heard one. Leonard Snart’s walk is not Barry’s hoppity-skippity bounce, nor is it the swagger of the Mardon brothers, or Axel’s languid stroll. It’s a fluid, swinging lope where every stride is in perfect time with the music, the movement flowing through his body in one unbroken current. There’s power in the way the soles of his knee high leather boots with their diamond spurs strike the runway, in the clean lines of his legs encased in their black suede pants. A black silk shirt with oversized sleeves and tight cuffs keeps him in proportion and a cloak billows behind him. It’s nothing like Barry’s cheerful cape; it’s a deep ebony, with heavy rainbow embroidery swirling in geometrical patterns, lined with lush purple velvet, and it suits him, oh, so well. There’s a black hat tipped over his head at an angle, and a mask glitters across his eyes, amethysts and lapis lazuli and amber beads on dark silk. 

Mick’s forgotten how to breathe.

Lenny comes to a halt at the end of the runway, and the music swells to a powerful crescendo. Mick couldn’t take his eyes off him even if he wanted to. Lenny’s stance is tall and proud; his eyes, ringed with kohl and glinting bluer than any gem on his mask, and as he snatches a corner of his cloak out of the air, loops it over his arm and draws it up to his chest, turning for the crowd, they tell the arena that he owns every person in it and that they will enjoy being owned. Cameras explode in all directions and the roar of the audience is almost drowning out the music and Mick just cannot stop staring. 

And then Len turns his head and looks straight at him. His mouth, a deep red, quirks up just a fraction at the corners. And then he spins, throwing up the arm that carries the cloak so that it billows up into the blaze of the lamps.

Among the gleaming jewels and chains on that slender hand is a wide band of dark metal, and the embroidery on that billowing cloak turns back on itself from the edges, iridescent shapes swirling in a circle towards the centre, meeting in the middle in a fiery burst to form two glowing letters.

An M and an L and a stained glass window.

By the time Len’s stepped off the runway, officially ending the segment, every single person in the arena, even Joe West, is on their feet, and Mick has tears streaming down his face. 

They meet at the afterparty two hours later. Mick’s wisely sitting down – he may or may not have needed Shawna shaking him violently by the collar, with a politely bemused Ray Palmer in tow, along with one or four glasses of champagne, to get his shit together again. Barry comes haring in towing Iris by one arm and Len by the other, while Caitlyn follows, trying to wheedle Barry into returning his cape to its rightful place. Len’s changed into a black dress shirt and pants, although he’s still got his kohl on; he looks completely at ease until he catches sight of Mick’s face. Then he’s across the room and standing in front of him, reaching for his hands, “Babe, what’s wrong?”

Mick stands up and kisses him. Iris squeals; Barry and the Mardon brothers whoop; Caitlyn uses the opportunity to snatch Barry’s cape from his shoulders and sprint impressively from the room in her six inch heels. When they break apart Len’s gone a little cross-eyed and Mick’s pretty sure he has lipstick all over his mouth, but he doesn’t give a damn. “I love you,” he tells Len.

“I love you too,” grins Len. “I take it you liked my outfit.”

“How the hell did you pull this one off, Lenny?”

“Lisa. She supplies gems for all the big names in the city now, and it’s amazing what she can do with a few calls. I did the design, she did the rest.”

As the others move away to pose for photographs, Len sidles closer. “Oh, and just so you know, I liked the end result so much that I bought it. I might wear it back at Jedha tonight, just in case it gets chilly.”

In Mick’s emotionally charged, champagne befuddled state, it takes him a few seconds to catch on, and then his mouth goes dry at the image of Lenny standing in the iridescent glow of their stained glass window, draped from head to toe in that gorgeous cloak and not much else. “Hope you kept the boots too,” he just manages to get out.

Len throws his head back and lets out a peal of laughter that has Joe West staring at him in amazement. “I was hoping you’d remember those.”

Oh, how Mick loves this man.

-

“I’m never going home.”

“Great. You can move into the bungalow at the other end of the beach this afternoon.”

“Thought you said we could have the one next to yours.”

“That was before the two of you engaged in nocturnal activities the sound of which overcame a twenty-foot long lawn and a tropical storm to float into my bedroom, which, no. Seeing my brother in a pink tutu has given me enough scars for life, I don’t need any more.”

“That was one show, Lise,” drawls Lenny, from where he’s lounging on a beach chair reading Barry’s letters. The handwriting, Mick can tell from here, is hideous. “And you weren’t even there for it.”

“My point exactly! The pictures transcended actual oceans. Scarred. For. Life.”

“All right, we’ll keep it down, now shut up,” growls Mick, reaching for another beer. Lisa sticks her tongue out at him like the mature professional that she is and goes off for another dip in the sea, oh so casually flipping the bird to a few dozen guys who think her teeny tiny bikini is an invitation. Mick watches to make sure no one gets too close – after ten years, Lisa is his sister too – then turns back to Len, who’s watching him with that fond smile that means he knows exactly what Mick’s thinking.

“Barry’s envious,” he says, waving the letter. “He’d thought that Iris’s third year in office would mean slowing down a little, but apparently Iris is still dead set on proving that not all of Central’s mayors are useless. And he says he won’t be able to take a break any time soon either.”

“Ah well, he is in the prime of life. Should enjoy it while they’re still banging down his door.”

“Hey!” Len sits up. “I’m in the prime of life too!”

Mick ducks a handful of sand. “Oh come on, you know what I mean. You’re thirty eight, you’ve matured, you’ve branched out. The runway isn’t the only thing you’ve got any more.”

“Yeah, I know. Speaking of which, there’s a letter from Sara. She’s booking the models for the summer shows, wants to know if we can give her some input.”

“Who’s in the running so far?”

Len consults the letter. “Hm. Amaya Jiwe, up and coming. Kendra Saunders and Carter Hall – package deal, which might be tricky – Kendra’s excellent, but Carter’s a bit of a stiff. Kara and Alex Danvers, from National City – Alex has experience, Kara’s just starting out. And – this is interesting – Roy Harper.”

“Wait, Roy Harper, like The Roy Harper? Wasn’t he signed with Queens over in Starling?”

“Apparently not any more – AND he’s not alone among the defectors. Felicity Smoak’s in the running too.”

“Awesome.” Mick takes a long swig of beer. He likes the Smoak girl – she’s never taken any of Oliver Queen’s bullshit, even if he is the head of Rory and Rory’s Modelling’s closest and most serous rival. She and Shawna and Sara will get on like a house on fire. “Write Sara back and tell her to start scheduling interviews in two weeks.”

Len looks surprised. “Thought you wanted to live here.”

“I do. Sri Lanka’s amazing, I totally get why Lisa moved here.” Mick looks around at the beach, then back at Len. “But when you start a modeling firm/fashion label with your supermodel husband of twenty years, well, you kind of can’t afford to hide out in the tropics forever.”

Len grins lopsidedly. “I guess not. Lisa will hate us for leaving after only two weeks, but I guess Barry will be thrilled. Without Caitlyn and Ronnie he and Cisco need all the help they can get.”

“Sara’ll help him out till we get back,” Mick declares. “Right now we gotta go shower and get changed for lunch.”

Len looks at his speculatively. Mick knows that look very, very well. “Who says we have to go to lunch?”

When Lisa finally bangs on the door and yells for them to get their asses outside or they’ll miss their dinner reservations, the sun has set and the air has turned chilly. Another storm is brewing. “Mick,” says Len, coming out of the bathroom in a pair of skinny jeans, toweling his head, “Can I borrow your black hoodie? It’s getting cold.”

Mick doesn’t reply, and Len takes his head out of the towel.

There’s an orange hoodie on the bed, made of some thick, soft, braided material.

“I think this is more your style,” says Mick.

Lenny’s eyes are wide. “Is that - ”

“ – the same one you were wearing the first time I saw you again? Yeah, it is.” Mick shrugs. “After Star Models merged with Ronnie’s firm, Barry was overhauling the old warehouses and he found this in some storage locker. Recognized it from the picture we have back at Jedha and mailed it to me.”

“Always knew that kid had a knack for this kind of thing,” says Len, moving to the bed and stroking the hoodie with his knuckles. 

“Yeah, well,” says Mick, staring at him. “Some people, they just have a knack for all kinds of things.”

Len smiles and pulls on the hoodie. He pauses for a moment, and then he pulls the collar up until all Mick can see are his eyes, and after all this time he still can’t tell what colour they are. But that’s okay. There’s still a wide, metallic ring on Lenny’s finger, and there’s an identical ring on an chain around Mick’s neck, and as he kisses Lenny, his hands fisting in the warm orange fabric of the hoodie, he thinks that’s all that’s ever mattered. 

They miss their dinner reservations, but Lisa forgives them.

Eventually.


End file.
